


Key to My Heart

by baegoalsandcreamcheese



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Muggle, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Athlete Harry Potter, Coffee, Coming Out, Community: hp_drizzle, Draco Malfoy Speaks French, Fluff and Angst, Football player Harry potter, Football | Soccer, Found Family, French Draco Malfoy, HP Drizzle Fest 2020, Journalist Draco Malfoy, Letters, London, M/M, Matchmaker Luna Lovegood, Rain, except for jily, seriously there is a lot of coffee and a lot of rain
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25928200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baegoalsandcreamcheese/pseuds/baegoalsandcreamcheese
Summary: Harry Potter gets locked out in the rain. He goes to his neighbour Draco Malfoy for help.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Pansy Parkinson, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger & Harry Potter & Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom/Luna Lovegood
Comments: 56
Kudos: 438
Collections: HP Drizzle Fest 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to the Drizzle Mods for organising this fest and to my beta [@mfingenius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mfingenius/pseuds/mfingenius) for their endless encouragement, feedback, help, and love. This fic would still just be an embarrassing memory if it weren't for them <33
> 
> Disclaimer: Harry Potter characters are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloomsbury/Scholastic. No profit is being made, and no copyright infringement is intended.

It was just Harry’s luck to lose his keys after the worst date of his life. Football practice had got out late, so he hadn’t had a chance to go home and prepare properly. He should have called it off then, but no. He had rinsed off in the locker rooms before tearing out of the pitch and onto the Tube, football gear in tow. There, he had collapsed into a seat and dozed off, only waking up when the train’s jostling alerted him to the fact that he had _just_ missed his stop. Until today, he hadn’t had to double back on the Tube in at least six months, but such records must always be broken. Had Harry possessed half a brain, surely he should have cancelled the date then, but still no. 

He finally dashed into the restaurant, ten minutes late for his reservation, skin damp with some combination of sweat and shower water and the heavy air that came with London’s constant cloud cover. His glasses had fogged up, and he had to stop in the doorway to clean them off on his flannel shirt. 

“I am so sorry for being late,” he said to the man nursing a cup of tea in the corner booth that Harry favoured. The man wasn’t exactly Harry’s type—he looked a little too much like Uncle Vernon for comfort—but Harry had never known Luna to lead someone astray with a blind date before.

“Pardon?” the man said, his newspaper rustling as he set it down, an oddly crisp sound against the chatter around them.

“Are… aren’t you my date?” Harry asked, feeling more and more foolish by the second. 

The moustached man had the good grace to chuckle and shake his head. “I’m afraid not, son,” he said. “I’m not expecting anybody. And I’m married.”

Harry clapped a hand over his mouth. “Oh my—if you’ll excuse—I’m so sorry,” he stammered before rushing away. If anything would have convinced Harry the date wasn’t worth it, it was this, but _still_ no. He marched up to the hostess and asked if she could show him over to the table reserved for two under the name “Harry Potter,” and she did so, with the bedazzled glaze in her eyes that meant that she knew just who Harry Potter was. He’d always been a stellar football player, and everyone in the sports world had known his name for a few years, but his fame had kicked off in broader circles after he’d been recruited to the English national team. Stories circulated about the _Boy who Lived_ , the football player who had survived a near-fatal car accident as a teenager, only to rise to sports stardom as soon as he had graduated uni. Sports journalists christened him Britain’s _Saviour_. If anyone could bring England back into the running for the World Cup, it was the team’s new attacking midfielder, Harry Potter. 

“Here you go, sir,” the hostess said, and Harry gave her a tight smile before turning to his date. He had a stocky frame and a heart-shaped face, with honey blond hair and a fringe that drooped into his eyes. His powder blue shirt seemed to be freshly starched, and Harry winced as he remembered the wrinkled red flannel he had pulled out of his bag of football gear. It didn’t smell _too_ sweaty, did it?

“Hello,” the man said, standing up and reaching over to shake Harry’s hand. “I’m Zacharias Smith. So nice to meet you.”

Harry returned the handshake, trying to ignore the sweat passing from Zacharias’s palm to his own and wondering if this was normal for a first date with a bloke. His instincts whispered _no_ , but he couldn’t say for sure. He hadn’t ever had a proper first date with a man, was the problem. The only boyfriend he’d ever had was Oliver Wood, his football captain on the uni team, and their relationship had started with a heated snog in the men’s showers after a particularly satisfying victory. By the time they had reached the stage of going out to eat together, any possible handshakes were far behind them. 

“Nice to meet you too,” Harry finally said, sliding into the seat across from Zacharias, taking a moment to mourn his usual comfortable corner booth. “Sorry I’m late. Practice went over, and I had a hell of a time getting here.” 

Zacharias waved his concerns away, and that was when things started to go downhill. Somehow, he managed to dominate the conversation with comments on his studies of Biblical Greek at Oxford whilst also gawking at Harry’s lightning-bolt scar and apparent fame. Harry only received a reprieve in the brief pauses his date took to wolf down his spaghetti bolognese, and he unsuccessfully tried to resist the urge to check the clock behind him for the next ninety-one minutes. 

“Come over to mine?” Zacharias suggested, placing a hand on top of Harry’s and squeezing. When Harry finally broached eye contact with the blond, he found himself distracted by a smear of tomato sauce by his lip. 

Harry couldn’t remember a time that sex had ever sounded so unappealing.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can,” he said, in what he hoped was a regretful tone. “It’s been great getting to know you, but I’m absolutely knackered tonight. I think I might be coming down with something, so I should probably head home.”

“Oh. Of course,” Zacharias said, frowning. “I could still give you a ride, if you’d like. Might be faster than the Tube, and that way you won’t risk making anyone else sick.” 

Harry conceded, and after paying, they headed out to Zacharias’s silver Volkswagen. Zacharias insisted on placing Harry’s football gear in the boot himself, even making a show of opening the bag and asking Harry what was inside.

“It’s just got some sweaty jerseys and cleats and such. Nothing too exciting,” he said, but that didn’t stop the other man from pawing through it before slinging it inside the car, zip still half-open. 

It took Harry too long to realise that Zacharias wasn’t actually driving him home. Maybe he really was ill—the clock had jumped a couple hours forward, and it was pitch dark outside; only the Volkswagen’s headlights and the fluorescent flashes of the motorway’s lamps lit the sky.

“What the hell?” Harry muttered, still waking up. “Smith, where are we?”

“We’re almost to Bristol!” Seeing the incredulity on Harry’s face, he rushed into an explanation. “You said you weren’t well, and the sea air always makes me feel better, and I wanted to spend more time with you.”

“Bristol isn’t even properly on the coast.”

“Quite right,” Zacharias said, as if he had made this geographic discovery himself. “But there’s an excellent beach just past it, and I thought you’d like it.”

“I’d like to _go home_ ,” Harry said. “And I hope you don’t make a habit of kidnapping your dates like this.”

“Kidnapping?” Zacharias gave a nervous chuckle. “You surely don’t think I—”

“Please turn the car around and take me home,” Harry snapped. “Right now.”

Zacharias did so, grumbling about how some people just didn’t appreciate the finer things in life. However, he quickly returned to his bragging from dinner, as if four hours hadn’t come and gone since the meal had started. The car ride passed all too slowly, with Zacharias nattering on about his studies and Harry feeling the pressure at his temples that meant a headache was coming. He was ready for the shittiest night in history to finally be over.

It was approaching two am when they turned the corner and Harry saw the building that contained his flat. Only one light was still on, casting an orange glow over a third storey balcony. As soon as Zacharias pulled to the kerb, Harry sprang out of the car.

“Thanks for tonight, Harry!” he called out. “I had fun!”

“Glad one of us did,” Harry said as he stepped onto the pavement. The Volkswagen was pulling away when he remembered his football bag was still in the boot.

“Zacharias! _Wait!_ ” Harry sprinted after the car and pounded on the back window. Zacharias turned toward the sound and lowered the passenger window.

“You want to come back to mine after all?” he asked, smirking.

Harry shook his head in disbelief. “You still have my football gear in your car.”

Zacharias finally looked chagrined. “Oh. Sorry. I’ll pop the boot for you.”

Harry slung the bag over his shoulder and left without saying good-bye. He heard a faint “See you, Harry!” behind him as he began to ascend the never-ending stairs to his third-floor flat. 

“In your dreams,” he muttered as he rifled through his bag for his keys. They weren’t in their normal side pocket. Harry frowned, then kept searching, more and more frantically. He double-checked his jean pockets, then triple-checked them. He completely emptied his bag, shaking out each rumpled jersey and sweat-stained pair of shorts. _Nothing_. His keys were gone.

That was when the rain started.

Thunder boomed overhead; lightning split the sky. A wet finger of rain trickled down Harry’s neck; droplets clung to his curls of hair; moisture fogged his glasses.

He couldn’t believe this. This many horrible things couldn’t possibly happen to him in one night. It had to defy some law of the universe. He’d ask Hermione which one; she’d be sure to know. And while he was at it, he needed to tell Luna how badly she had blundered in this setup. 

He pulled out his mobile to do so, then groaned. _Of course_. Of course it was dead. That meant he couldn’t call a locksmith either. He had no way to get into his flat and he had no way to contact someone who could help.

Harry Potter was completely, one hundred per cent fucked. 

The downpour drenched Harry as he stood there, trying to figure out what to do. It was too late to catch a train to Ron and Hermione’s, or to Luna and Neville’s, or to the flat that Ginny shared with her teammates. He supposed he could walk somewhere, but where to? All of his friends lived several kilometres away, and he didn’t think he could find his way by foot without a map. 

He decided to set out to the 24-hour Tesco a few blocks away. Maybe the night-shift employee would take pity on him and let him use their mobile. He was glancing over his shoulder at his empty flat, thinking about his warm and dry bed and how a three-centimetre piece of metal was all that stood between him and home, when he saw that light in the window again, beaming from the flat opposite his. Did that mean its resident was still awake? Maybe they could help, and Harry wouldn’t have to slog through three blocks in a torrential rainstorm. 

His decision made, Harry turned back around and marched up to the door. He didn’t know anything about the person who lived inside, but this night couldn’t get any worse, right? Before he could change his mind, he raised his fist and knocked. 

There was a brief pause, just long enough for Harry to wonder what he was doing, and then the door opened. A man around Harry’s age stood on the other side, a man with light blond hair, sharp features, and a tall, thin frame. His collarbone peeked out from his worn t-shirt, which had slipped off one shoulder, and he had a pen tucked behind his ear. 

“Sorry to bother you,” Harry stammered. “I… err… moved into the flat across from yours about six months back, and I don’t believe we’ve met.” He stuck his hand out for the other man to shake and immediately regretted it, remembering how poorly his last handshake had gone.

The man in front of him ignored Harry’s proffered hand. Instead, he leant against the doorframe and coolly said, “Ah, yes, I have become well-acquainted with your abhorrent music taste. I’d ask what possessed a man such as yourself to purchase any album by Celestina Warbeck, but I think I’d rather not know. However, I will ask, if you don’t mind, why you decided to introduce yourself at half two?”

Harry withdrew his hand. “Oh. Right. Sorry. This is a bit embarrassing, but I’ve managed to lock myself out, and my mobile is dead, so I was wondering if you had a charger I could borrow or anything? I’m so sorry to be a bother, it’s just been an awful night.”

The man stifled a snort as he looked Harry up and down. “I can tell, Mr…”

“Potter. Harry Potter,” Harry said. His neighbour’s eyes widened just enough that Harry wasn’t sure if he recognised the name or not. “And you are?”

“Malfoy. Draco Malfoy.” Draco paused. “Would you like to come in?”

“If you wouldn’t mind, that would be wonderful.” Draco stepped out of the doorway and Harry followed him inside, wondering how a flat of the same design as his could look so impossibly different. 

“Go ahead and take a seat,” Draco said, motioning Harry toward a sleek suede sofa in the front room. “I have an iPhone, but I might have a couple old chargers buried in a desk drawer somewhere too.”

“I have an iPhone too, so if I could borrow your cable, that would be fantastic,” Harry said, wearily sinking onto the couch. The water from his clothes seeped into the fabric, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

“Posh, aren’t you?” his neighbour teased as he hurried into the back of the flat. Harry couldn’t help but stare as he retreated; Draco’s trackies were too big for him, the waistband rolled several times over, and that pen still stuck out behind his ear. His clothing choices were made extra puzzling by the furnishings of the place: chic and modern and minimalistic, like Harry’s neighbour lived in a catalogue instead of a home. This flat couldn’t have contrasted more with Harry’s, considering they had identical floor plans. He was pretty sure there were no fewer than three takeaway containers on his own coffee table, and he had an abandoned pair of shoes in every room, including the kitchen. Oh dear, he hadn’t left a pair of cleats on the counter _again_ , had he?

Draco emerged then, carrying an iPhone charger, an overfilled file folder, and another pen. He tossed the charger over to Harry, then settled into the chair opposite his sofa, opening the folder and uncapping the pen with his teeth. 

Harry plugged his mobile in, made sure it was charging, and waited for a few minutes. Draco scrawled something in the corner of one of the sheets in his file. 

“What are you working on?” Harry finally tried. 

“Something important,” his neighbour answered shortly. He didn’t look up from what he was reading. Well then. 

Harry glanced back down at his mobile, praying to anyone who might be listening that it would be charged enough for him to turn it on and leave the worst night of his life behind, but the battery remained stubbornly dead. 

After a few more minutes of excruciating silence, Draco looked back over at him. Harry was startled by the cool greyness of his gaze—he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen eyes of such a colour, like they reflected back the early morning mist that settled over the city. 

“Would you like anything to drink?” Draco asked, standing up and stretching. He moved to put the pen in his hand behind his ear, but finding the space already occupied, he hurriedly set it back on top of the folder instead.

“Actually, water would be lovely. Thank you.”

“Still or sparkling?” Draco continued, loping toward the kitchen with an unreasonable amount of grace, given the hour. 

“Whatever is easiest,” Harry said. He’d given up on staring at his blank mobile screen and instead focused his gaze on Draco’s back as he poured seltzer into two glasses. Harry could see his shoulder blade moving underneath his thin t-shirt, and something deep inside him began to stir. Draco carefully sliced two wedges of lemon and fixed them on the rims of the glasses, then returned to the living room. He held out one of the cups, then took a sip from his own. 

Harry did the same, but a dribble of water trickled down his chin, and he hurriedly dabbed it away, fighting the wave of mortification that had just encompassed him. Shittiest night in history, indeed. He hazarded a glance at Draco, but he didn’t seem to notice what had just transpired, or at least had the decorum not to say anything. 

Draco paused, his drink halfway to his mouth, and stared at Harry. He self-consciously wiped at his chin again. 

“So, tell me how you came to find yourself locked out of your flat at this time of night,” Draco said, a hint of a smile poking at the corner of his mouth. 

Harry sighed, tilting his head against the back of the sofa and letting his gaze rest on the silver light fixtures shining down on the pair of them. When he looked back at his neighbour, a gold aura seemed to frame his face. “The short version is that I was set up on the world’s worst date, and he sort of kidnapped me. My best guess is that my keys got left in his car.”

“Wow, there’s a lot to unpack there,” Draco said, setting his glass down and leaning toward Harry, a gleam in his grey eyes. Harry’s throat inexplicably went dry. “First off, your date was with a bloke?”

“Does that bother you?”

Draco scoffed. “Of course not. I have my share of issues, but hypocrisy is not one of them. I just hadn’t assumed you also dated men. Moving on: ‘He sort of kidnapped you?’ I do hope you plan to elaborate. Tell me the long version.” 

“Are you sure? It’s already rather late.” 

“Of course I’m sure. What else would I be doing right now, anyway?” Both men glanced down at the folder on the table between them, then back up at each other. Harry waited for Draco to take back the request, given their shared acknowledgement of his flimsy reasoning, but he said nothing. Instead, Draco shifted uncomfortably, then gave a shy smile, and even though Harry barely knew his neighbour, he somehow knew this moment was significant. Even when his flat had been invaded in the middle of the night and he was clearly not dressed for company and he had a fucking pen behind his ear, Draco had been fully in control. And now that they’d settled in, the clock inching toward three am, he was letting himself be vulnerable. 

Harry’s mobile lit up on the arm of the sofa, Apple’s logo blazing up at the ceiling, but Draco didn’t comment on it, so Harry decided to ignore it as well. He began his story, and he couldn’t help but think that this was rather a nice ending to the shittiest night in history.

As it turned out, Draco was an excellent listener. He laughed in the right places, chin tipped upward and the corners of his eyes crinkling with mirth. He raised a single impeccable, incredulous eyebrow when Harry told him about waking up on the outskirts of Bristol.

“Smith sounds like a maniac,” Draco observed as Harry finished, squeezing the last of his lemon wedge’s juice into his cup of seltzer and licking his thumb. “That is quite a story. I don’t know that I’d believe it if you hadn’t shown up at my doorstep looking like…” He glanced Harry up and down meaningfully.

“Trust me, my imagination is not that good.” Harry laughed. “Now, if I may ask, why were you awake when I knocked?”

“That’s not nearly as exciting,” Draco said, stretching languidly against the back of the armchair, his spine arching. “I’m a journalist for the _Times_ , see, and I—well, I’ve always had a bit of an obsessive streak.” He stood up and made his way back over toward the kitchen. His back was turned to Harry, but he kept speaking as he picked up the knife and halved lemon sitting on the countertop. “At least, that’s how my mates put it. There’s an important case I’ve been working on for quite some time, and even though I’ve used up all my leads, I can feel that I’m on the edge of a breakthrough.” Harry heard the bite of the knife cutting through the fruit, and Draco returned with a new lemon wedge in hand, sitting himself back on the edge of the armchair. “So I’ve been going through all my notes for hours, trying to see if I’ve missed something along the way.”

“Any luck?”

Draco shook his head and smiled sheepishly, disarmingly. Harry’s stomach seemed to have wedged itself between his waterlogged shoes. “I got a bit distracted.” 

“Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem at all. This has not been an altogether unpleasant experience, even if you’ve ruined my sofa.” Seeing the stricken look on Harry’s face, Draco let out a lofty laugh. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve never liked it anyway. Looks like a pretentious piece of shite, but my father made me bring it from the manor.”

“The—”

“This really has been fun—you’re surprisingly tolerable for a Celestina Warbeck fan—but it’s getting on to four, so I should probably head to bed. I presume your mobile has started charging?” Draco stood and made to exit, glass of water in hand, then stopped. “Wait. 24/7 locksmiths are expensive, aren’t they?” He took a measured sip, a picture of calm composure. Harry couldn’t tell if this was all a masquerade, if Draco had planned to pause in the entry with his hand on his hip just _so_ , or if this really was only occurring to him now. He had just admitted to living in a manor, after all. He probably never had even worried about money. 

Harry shrugged. “I’ve never had to call one before, but I’d expect so. That’s all right though; I did lock myself out. That’s the price to be paid.”

“You can spend the night here, if you want,” Draco offered. “You’d have to sleep on the sofa, but it seems silly for you to pay that extra fee, when it’s only a few hours different.”

“Are you sure? I don’t want to be a bother, or more of a bother than I already am, I guess.” Harry fought a yawn, and his head inadvertently flopped back on the couch behind him before Draco could answer. His eyelids were fluttering, and he forced them back open, then forced himself to make bleary eye contact with the man in front of him.

“It’s not a bother,” Draco assured him. “That’s what neighbours are for, isn’t it? Helping each other out.”

“Well, I won’t say no, if you’re offering. I should be out of your hair by the time you wake up.”

“Really, you can sleep for as long as you need to,” Draco said. “Let me just grab you a blanket and see if I have an extra toothbrush.”

He returned a couple moments later, holding out a soft blue pillow and thick green blanket in one hand, and a toothbrush and sample-size toothpaste in the other. 

“Let me know if you need anything else,” Draco said. Harry looked on with amazement.

“You just have all this stuff on hand?”

“I do, as it happens. I’ll be off now, if that’s all right. Good night, Harry.”

“Good night. And—erm—thank you very much.” 

After he heard the door click shut behind Draco, Harry got to business. He brushed his teeth at the kitchen sink, then laid out the blanket across the sofa. He knew Draco had told him he didn’t need to worry about staying late into the morning, but he didn’t want to impose any more than he already had done. His neighbour had already been far nicer to him than, well, anyone had been, since he’d become a name and a face people knew, and he didn’t want to ruin it now. 

Harry wasn’t so unbearably famous that he got harassed on the streets every time he went out or got accosted every time he boarded the Tube. It helped that he wore glasses, he privately thought. No one expected England’s star footballer to wear glasses off the pitch, but contacts made his eyes itch when he wore them for more than a couple hours at a time. Nonetheless, when people met and recognised him, they always wanted something from him. Everyone seemed to think he existed solely to satisfy their curiosity and provide mementoes. He didn’t mind signing autographs or chatting briefly about what it was like to make your career in sports, but he hated it when people decided he owed them such favours because he was famous, when they’d follow him down three blocks even after he’d given them what they said they wanted. Besides his friends from uni, those who had decided he was worth their time before he signed with the Arsenals and then the national team, no one had ever been kind to him because he was Harry. It was always because he was bloody Harry Potter. 

So this was a first. Draco hadn’t dwelt on the fact that he played football at all; he’d wanted to hear about Harry’s awful night instead. Harry loved his friends more than anything, but he hadn’t realised that he missed meeting and spending time with other people too, people who neither swarmed him in public nor reminded him daily about embarrassing moments from uni, like when he brought Parvati Patil to his first leaver’s ball and then ignored her for the rest of the night to hang off Oliver’s arm instead (he hadn’t been nearly as subtle about his infatuation as he had thought, as it turned out). He was grateful to have friends who had stuck by his side for so long, but he wanted new connections too. He supposed he was relatively new to the national team, but that was different. They talked in the locker rooms as they threw on their football kits, and then they played, and then they went home. No one there had ever tried to forge a deeper relationship with Harry, and no one was going to. Now that he was thinking about it, he’d been lonely for a lot longer than he was comfortable admitting. 

Harry’s mobile alarm went off at seven, blaring “Walking on Sunshine,” and he hurriedly slapped it off. Draco had already been merciless about the Celestina Warbeck playing in his flat (never mind that it was Ginny’s music. She always blasted it when they cooked together), and he didn’t need to provide any more fodder for the blond’s teasing. He stumbled into the washroom and splashed his face. A couple drops of water landed on the pristine mirror over the sink, and he hurriedly tried to smudge them off with his shirtsleeve. 

Draco’s restroom was as meticulously clean and clutter-free as the living room had been, his bath mat the same dark velvety grey as the sofa. Harry wondered briefly if it was strange for him to notice such a thing, then resumed making himself presentable-ish with renewed vigour. 

He folded the blanket, leaving it and the pillow stacked on the arm of the settee. He unplugged his mobile from the wall and left the charger coiled on the coffee table, cleaned out their glasses in the sink and moved the coasters to their station on the kitchen counter. Harry appraised his handiwork and frowned. It was still obvious that someone had spent the night on the couch, but he didn’t know what else he could do to tidy up. He’d have to make it up to Draco another way.

Mobile in hand and duffel over his shoulder, Harry slipped out of the flat, already dialling a locksmith’s number.

An hour and a half later, Harry was finally inside his flat, with a new lock installed on the door and four copies of the key sitting on his coffee table. He’d had a couple spares of the old key usefully piled in his desk drawer inside the flat already, but the thought of Zacharias Smith being able to let himself into Harry’s home made his stomach feel as topsy-turvy sweaty clammy as it had when he had gone to a gay club for the first time, except that had been pleasant, and this was not. 

He hummed to himself as he showered and cleaned, moving his spare cleats from the countertop to a shelf in his closet, tossing his old takeaway containers into the dustbin under the sink, and wiping down the multitude of flat surfaces he’d been ignoring for the last few weeks. He smiled as he surveyed the living area. It still didn’t look nearly as polished as Draco’s flat next door—Harry’s squat sofa was a ratty brown thing he’d purchased at a charity shop right after he’d graduated from uni, and somewhere along the way, it had become a rite of passage to sign your name onto the side in Sharpie when Harry wasn’t looking. His coffee table had a splash of white paint on a leg from when Luna had decided to give his last flat an “ethereal” look, and a chipped corner from when Ron accidentally had rammed it into the wall of the stairwell whilst Harry was moving in, and a burn mark seared onto the side from when Fred and George had set off fireworks _inside_ Harry’s flat a couple New Years ago. 

He smiled, but it was a sad smile. He missed living with his friends; over the course of the past year or two, they’d split off and all started to move away. They were all still in Greater London, but it wasn’t the same. Ron and Hermione couldn’t just pop over and chat because they’d heard his footsteps creaking in the flat above. Now they lived a thirty-minute bus ride away, and since they had a child, _everything_ required planning. Neville and Luna couldn’t just water Harry’s plants every morning when he was away for a football tournament or when he simply forgot, because they were always busy with their combined nursery/art studio. The only time Harry could catch up with them now was when he went under the pretence of buying a plant or a new painting. Maybe he’d stop by this afternoon, buy a succulent, and tell Luna about her horrible setup. But before he could do that, there was one more order of business to take care of: coffee. 

The best coffee shop in the world was three blocks away from Harry’s flat, in the dead opposite direction of the Tesco. He usually only let himself pay for it once a week, because he knew he wouldn’t have a football salary his whole life and he had student loans to finish paying, but today, he deserved a trip to Bean Thinking of You. 

He was ordering his regular, a flat white with a cardamom bun, when he got a splendid idea. 

“Could I actually get two of those?” he asked the barista. She nodded, tapping in the order, but since he wasn’t sure if his neighbour liked cardamom buns, he also bought an apple cinnamon danish, a cherry tart, and a chocolate brioche, just in case. 

He hurried back home, dug through his junk drawer for a biro, produced a sheet of paper from his desk, and scrawled:

_Dear Draco,_

_Consider this a small thank you for the huge favour you did me last night. You absolutely saved my sorry arse and I probably owe you my life for it. Please let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you in return. You will be pleased to note that I got into my flat this morning and the lock has been changed, so Smith won’t be sneaking in anytime soon. I hope this finds you well and that you finally break through on your case._

_Best,_

_Harry_

_PS I really am sorry about your sofa._

_PPS For what it’s worth, the Celestina Warbeck album you’ve been subjected to actually belongs to my friend Ginny. I’ll tell her to bring something different next time she comes over._

Harry slipped the thank-you and a twenty-pound note into the paper bag, folded the top back down, and knocked on his neighbour’s door, holding the warm bundle in one hand. When Draco didn’t open, he set it down on his doormat and headed out. He still needed to complain to Luna and to tell Ron and Hermione about everything that had happened last night, and he didn’t want to wait a moment longer. 

Nothing centred Harry like time with his friends. For a long time, he’d preferred their homes to his own, always dreading the moment he’d have to return to his drab flat. He still felt that way sometimes, if he was honest with himself. But he seemed to be the only one. Ginny had new friends in Westminster, now. Luna and Neville shared an eclectic flat above their equally eclectic shop in Dalston. Ron and Hermione had recently moved to their new place, a quaint house in Dulwich, after they’d announced that Hermione was pregnant with their second and they’d need more space for their family. Harry was excited for his best friends—he truly was—but he got the sense that their lives were moving on without him, and no matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t keep up.

It sounded silly, especially when one considered that he practically ran for a living, but maybe that was the problem. Whilst his friends had been finding each other, he’d been chasing after a bloody football.

He was so preoccupied that he nearly ran face first into a teenage girl on his way to Liverpool Street Station, but the situation was quickly rectified when she thrust a receipt at him to sign, and after a brief conversation he was on his way again. 

By the time he arrived at Dalston Junction, it had started to rain again, and he wanted to kick himself for leaving his umbrella at work the day before. Drops of water sluiced the grit from the pavement and pushed pedestrians into the shops they passed. Their interiors hummed with a golden warmth, contrasting with the grey pattering of rain outside. 

Harry turned a final corner, head down to brace against the gloomy weather. He reflexively shivered as he stepped into The Painted Plant, the rich scents of pigment and earth drifting into his lungs. He flicked his wet hair out of his eyes, wiped his glasses off on a dry patch on his t-shirt, then made his way over to where Neville stood behind a counter. The shop was cluttered but in a cosy way, hand-painted flowerpots interspersed with Luna’s paintings. Together, they filled most of the flat surfaces in the room. 

“Harry!” Neville called out, grinning. He had a swipe of dirt across his cheek, and a larger streak of it on his smock. “How’s it going?”

“Pretty good! And you?”

“No complaints! I’ve just been repotting orchids,” he said, gesturing to the plants on the counter in front of him. “They get a bit temperamental when I don’t give them enough attention.”

“Err, right.” Harry’s attention moved to a row of succulents on a shelf above the counter, right at eye-level. It was a good marketing trick, that. Most shops you went to put sweets and trashy tabloids right at the counter for your impulse purchases. Neville and Luna’s shop offered succulents and painted bookmarks instead. “Is Luna around, then?”

Neville nodded toward the back of the shop as he packed peat moss around the roots of one of the flowers. “She should be finishing up a watercolour class soon. You can head over now, if you want. I’m sure she’ll be happy to see you.”

Harry said his thanks and made his way over, picking past a glass coffee table covered in canvases, a row of sunflowers nodding toward a lamp, and a cluster of snow pea plants beginning to bud. Despite the clutter, there was an airiness and a joy to the shop; it was a place that made you feel at home.

“Marvin, that purple grass is simply delightful!” Luna’s voice rang over the chatter in the crowded studio in the back. “One should never limit themselves to what they see with their eyes.” Marvin, who couldn't have been more than ten years old, beamed back at his teacher. A couple minutes later, Luna clapped her hands together, dismissed her class, then skipped over to where Harry was leaning against a shelf. His eyes caught on the red ladybugs dancing across her apron, and then on the matching red paintbrush tucked behind her ear. He couldn’t help but remember the night before, an image of Draco and his pen flashing before his mind’s eye before he turned back to the matter at hand.

“Harry, it’s so good to see you!” she said, reaching out for a hug. “I suppose you’re here to try the new tea I found? It does wonders for your hearing. Truly, I never realised how paint _sounds_ until now. It’s added a whole new dimension to my art. Neville just ordered a shipment, so we’ll be stocking it soon.”

“Err, no.” Harry was suddenly profoundly aware of how long it had been since he’d stopped by the shop, how long since he had seen Luna in person. “I actually just wanted to catch up. I went on that date with Zacharias last night.”

“And?” She was cleaning up now, movements as swift and smooth as an insect over the water. 

“And it was horrible! No offence, Luna, but I think you may be losing your touch.”

A slight frown hovered on her lips, her eyes large and glassy as a dragonfly’s. Luna was famously good at setting people up, particularly people who never would have found each other otherwise. After Harry and Oliver Wood had broken up, she’d thought to introduce Oliver to Charlie Weasley, and that was why Harry would now see his ex every Christmas until the end of time. She’d also set up Ginny with her last three significant others, had predicted Ron and Hermione getting together years before Harry had noticed they fancied one another, and most impressively, was responsible for the marriage of two professors from their uni. 

Then she shook her head and declared, “No, I was right about the date.”

“You could not get me back in a room with Zacharias if you paid me,” Harry insisted. 

Luna laughed, the sound of it tinkling and breathy. “No, I won’t ask you to do that. But I was right to set you up with him. It’s as right as purple grass. I can feel it.”

When Harry got home that afternoon, a box of Luna’s tea and one of Neville’s succulents in tow, the sun’s rays were slanting across the sky, as sudden as the morning’s showers of rain. The package he’d left on Draco’s doorstep was gone, he was gratified to see. Harry hummed “You Charmed the Heart Right Out of Me” as he unlocked the door to his flat, relishing the smooth entry of the key into the lock and the soft click it made as he turned it. He would never take it for granted again, he vowed.

He jumped back and let out an embarrassing yelp when a letter flopped from where it had been tucked in his doorway and onto the ground. He frowned. How had he missed that?

The envelope was made of creamy, thick paper, and his name was written across its back in perfect cursive. Harry tore it open and pulled out the note inside.

_Dear Harry,_

_Don’t worry about last night; it wasn’t a problem at all. You needn’t pay me for letting you stay over. Bloody hell, that’s why I offered in the first place. However, I did take the liberty of using your money in a way that’s apparently too practical for your footballer sensibilities. Inside this envelope, you’ll find a keychain. My hope is that it will help you keep track of your keys, which I know can be a demanding task. It was rather difficult to obtain—I had to walk all the way down the block to a tourist kiosk and examine all the choices until I found the right one. I trust that this is conspicuous enough for you to not lose your keys again. I’ve also included an acceptable pen for our further correspondence. What were you using, a cheap biro you stole from a hotel room? Never mind. I don’t want to know. Regardless, I’m glad to hear that Smith won’t be terrorising you again anytime soon (although if he does, please report back immediately. I haven’t had a laugh as good as last night’s in a long while)._

_On second thought, your visit actually caused me a huge deal of trouble, so I expect you to continue to bring me apple cinnamon danishes every morning. I’m loath to admit it, but those pastries were delightful._

_Warmest regards,_

_Draco Malfoy_

_PS I already told you. I hate that sofa._

_PPS The Celestina Warbeck music belongs to your friend? Convenient that you forgot to mention that last night..._

Grinning to himself, Harry checked inside the envelope, and sure enough, it had a ten-pound note, a fountain pen, and a horrible keychain, shaped like a red jersey with “10” and “Potter” emblazoned onto the back. Oh, he was _so_ getting Draco back for this.

The next morning, between Harry’s usual morning run and gym workout, he took a detour to Bean Thinking of You. He signed an extra coffee cup for the starstruck barista, then made his way back home, juggling a bag of pastries and two cups of coffee. 

He loved London on Sunday mornings, especially when the weather was like this: the cool side of perfect, a gentle breeze wicking the sweat from the nape of his neck. There were people on the streets, strolling with their families or taking photos in front of shops with brick backdrops, but it was nothing like the chaos of a Monday morning, when everyone was _go go going_ , when commuters acted as if those around them were roadblocks instead of other living, breathing humans. 

Harry stopped by his flat and grabbed the box he’d left on the sofa, then knocked on the door across from his. He wasn’t expecting Draco to open it this early on a Sunday morning, but it still seemed more courteous to him than dropping the food off without warning. He’d just set today’s bundle on the doormat and was standing back up again when the door opened to reveal a smirking Draco. 

Besides the facial expression and the omnipresent pen behind his ear, he couldn’t have looked more different from the man Harry had met two nights prior. This Draco’s hair was slicked back, and he wore a sage green button-up, well-fitting trousers, and shiny leather oxfords. Harry was having a hard time remembering how to swallow.

“Well?” Draco asked, one blond brow lifting.

Harry bit his lip and bent back down to pick up his offerings from Bean Thinking of You, trying to remind his tongue how to form words. “Well, since I caused you so much trouble the other day, I’m here to give you another apple cinnamon danish, as requested.” He handed Draco the crinkled paper bag and one of the cups of coffee. “And my friend Luna swears by this tea when she needs inspiration, so I thought perhaps that could help with your case.” Harry passed over the box of tea as well, pretending not to see the bemused smile on Draco’s lips. “And I was also going to ask if you wanted to take a walk along the Thames, since it’s rather lovely outside, but it looks as if you’re busy.” Harry didn’t know where that bit had come from. He hadn’t been planning to take a walk along the Thames, and he hadn’t been planning to talk with Draco in the middle of a workout, and he certainly hadn’t been planning to do both of those things at the same time.

Draco seemed almost as surprised as Harry at the offer. “I… no, I’m not busy. I’m meeting with someone for an interview this afternoon and was planning on working until then, but a walk could be nice. Just give me one second.”

He ducked back into his flat, setting the box of tea and his pen on the coffee table, and Harry kicked at his trainers self-consciously as he waited. He didn’t know what he was doing. Well, he knew he was spontaneously buying treats for and proposing walks with his attractive neighbour who dated men, but that didn’t exactly clarify matters. 

The two of them walked in companionable silence for a while, Draco in his work clothes and Harry in his sweaty running kit. When they reached the Thames, Harry paused for a moment and sighed contentedly. The breeze was stronger coming off the water, and it carried birdsong and children’s laughter from a neighbouring park. 

“I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of London,” he thought aloud. He could feel Draco’s eyes on him, but when he turned toward him, Draco was staring down into the river, both hands on his coffee cup.

“How long have you lived here?” Draco asked.

Harry had to pause to think about that, which left him feeling quite old. “Twelve years. I grew up in a village in Somerset, but I moved in with my godfather and his partner when I was fifteen, and I’ve been here ever since.” 

“Twelve years? That’s a long time.”

“Yeah.” Harry’s voice was quiet. 

“Why’d you move in with your godfather? If you don’t mind me asking…” Draco was still pointedly looking over the water, his shoulders bunched by his ears.

“You don’t know?” He hadn’t had to tell the story in years; it was always mentioned somewhere when the papers wrote about him, but he supposed Draco didn’t follow sports. “Right. My parents were driving home from a Halloween party when I was fifteen, and a drink driver hit us head-on. Mum and Dad died at the scene, but I got lucky. Just a few broken bones and this scar, here.” He pulled his fringe back to show the jagged scar that stretched from his hairline to the top of his cheekbone. “Sirius took me in once I was released from the hospital, and I’ve lived in London ever since.”

“Oh, Harry. I’m so sorry,” Draco breathed. His eyes were as big and grey as a stormcloud right before it released rain. He reached over to where Harry’s fingers were clenching the railing, and gave his hand a brief squeeze.

Harry shrugged. He didn’t know why he’d brought this up, but he felt suddenly exposed, his darkest memories floating in the air between them. “Thanks,” he finally got out. He cleared his throat. “Anyway, what brought you to London?”

Draco nodded, sensing Harry’s desire to change the subject, and they continued walking along the river. “I got a promotion, so they moved me from the Manchester bureau a year and a half ago,” Draco said. 

“Oh. Wow. Do you like it here?”

“Yeah, definitely better than Manchester.”

Harry snorted. “That goes without saying.”

“And it improved significantly a couple days ago,” Draco admitted, giving Harry a sidelong glance. 

“Oh? How so?”

“Well, I finally got to tell my neighbour off about his horrible music, and I learnt about a great coffee shop.” He drained his cup, as if to emphasise the statement, then turned to Harry with a wicked grin. “Am I forgetting anything?”

Harry stepped a few inches closer, and their arms brushed as they walked. “You tell me.”

Draco pursed his lips, feigning deep thought. “No, nothing comes to mind.”

“Well, you’ll have to let me know if something does.”

They crossed Millennium Bridge, weaving between hordes of tourists until they found an open spot, looking over the water. They didn’t have to consult one another to know to stop, and Harry marvelled at how natural this was. A ship was chugging its way up the river beneath them, smog funnelling from its smokestack; and seagulls bobbed over the water; and Draco was silhouetted against the sun, its rays casting his golden hair and angular features in sharp relief. Even though they stood on a crowded bridge in the middle of the city, Harry thought this might have been the closest he had felt to home in months, maybe years. 

Soon after, they turned around and made their way back to their flats. 

“Thanks for this morning,” Harry said as they climbed up the three flights of stairs to their floor. 

“Thank _you_ ,” Draco said. “I meant what I said, earlier.”

“About the danishes?”

“No, you tosser.” He rolled his eyes. “I mean, yes, they’re divine, but no. About how it’s been better here, for the last couple days. And I was wondering, would you like to come over for dinner tomorrow night?” Draco rushed through the last part, and a trace of pink bloomed on his pale cheeks.

Harry sucked in a breath. “I would love to, but I have an away game on Wednesday, so I’ll be heading to Brussels tomorrow. Is there another day that would work for you?”

“How about Thursday, at seven?”

Harry nodded, and he couldn’t prevent the smile climbing onto his cheeks.

“All right then,” Draco said, beaming. “It’s a date!”


	2. Chapter 2

Harry spent the next few days alternating between all-consuming thoughts about the game against Belgium and all-consuming thoughts about Thursday night. He threw himself into practice, and when he emerged from the pitch after England’s victory, dripping with sweat and aching all over and smiling at his teammates, Coach Scrimgeour clapped his shoulder, exclaiming, “Potter, that may have been your best game so far! Keep it up!”

One of his favourite post-game rituals was to hole up in his hotel room and watch the match, taking notes on what plays had worked and where he could improve. But his attention kept wandering to the note he had found on his door when he’d set off for St Pancras early Monday morning.

 _Dear Harry_ ,

_Best of luck in your game this week! For what it’s worth, you have at least one former Manchester fan rooting for you._

_Now that that’s over with, it occurred to me tonight that as quaint as it is to leave letters on each other’s doors to communicate, we both have perfectly good mobile phones. Therefore, when you arrive home safely, please text me at 07774 555555. I’m looking forward to Thursday night._

_Warmest regards,_

_Draco Malfoy_

It was truly mortifying how those five sentences wreaked havoc on his heart rate whenever he read over them again. And they kept doing so, until he stuffed the note back into his pocket and knocked on Draco’s door Thursday night, at seven on the dot.

His thumbs tapped against the bottle of Bordeaux he held as he waited, wondering if there was any etiquette he was forgetting. He shoved the note further down in his pocket, just in case.

“Hi!” Draco said brightly as he opened the door. The first thought Harry had was that he looked radiant when he smiled. The second thought was that, for once, Draco didn’t have a pen behind his ear.

“Hi,” Harry said, holding out the wine bottle. “The coffee shop was closed by the time I made it home tonight, so I thought this was the next best thing.”

Draco examined the label and nodded. “An acceptable substitute. Would you like to come in?” He stood aside, and Harry entered the flat, taking it in properly this time. Draco had draped a blanket across the stain Harry had left on the sofa, and next to the kitchen, he had set up a table for two, complete with cloth serviettes folded into cranes. The air carried the warm smell of bread and roasted meat across the room, and Harry’s stomach grumbled.

“Is there anything I can do to help?” he asked.

“If you could open the wine, that would be wonderful.” Draco slid a bottle opener across the counter to Harry, then pulled two stem glasses down from a cabinet. Harry poured each of them a generous cup, then stood, waiting, as Draco bustled around the kitchen, making the meal’s final preparations. 

“Is there anything else?” Harry felt awkward and fidgety without a task to occupy him, especially when Draco was flying around the kitchen in a way that would make a professional chef jealous.

“No, I think this is it,” Draco said, carrying two plates of salad to the table, a bottle of balsamic vinaigrette tucked under his arm. “Thanks for getting the wine.” He eyed the table, then nodded, satisfied, and motioned for Harry to sit. 

“It was no problem. Thanks so much for all of this. It looks—and smells— amazing.”

“Oh, this was nothing,” Draco assured him, but he couldn’t quite hide his pleasure at Harry’s words. “You can go ahead and eat. It won’t bite you, you know.” He stabbed a halved cherry tomato and popped it into his mouth, as if to demonstrate. 

“I just don’t know which fork to use,” Harry admitted, smiling sheepishly. He expected Draco to reply with some biting retort, but he just pointed to the outermost one and explained that you moved your way inward as the meal progressed. Their feet bumped one another under the table.

“So, how’s your week been?” Harry tried. “Covering any crazy stories?”

Draco coughed, then took a long gulp of wine. Harry’s eyes traced the line of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. “Sorry. No, the most exciting news at the office is that my boss got a dog, and the public cares about that even less than I do.”

“That sounds like very exciting news to me,” Harry teased. 

Draco rolled his eyes, but Harry could see the corners of his smile as he stared down at his plate. “What about you? How was your game?”

“We won, although you might have already heard about that.”

“Yes, obviously, you won. I was hoping for a little more detail. The long version, if you will,” Draco said.

“Oh. Sorry, I didn’t realise you followed football,” Harry admitted. 

“I don’t follow it, precisely, but I know a thing or two,” Draco explained, drizzling vinaigrette over his salad. “Anyway, we don’t have to talk about the game. I just thought that if you wanted to go through the play-by-play, since winning against another national team is no small feat, I was a willing audience. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Harry said again, feeling suddenly shy. “I can talk about it, if you want. I’m just not used to doing that outside of the team. But in return, I want to hear more about the one and only Draco Malfoy.”

“If you insist,” Draco said, pushing back from the table. “Are you ready for the food?”

“The—”

Draco came back with two coupes laden with beef bourguignon and a basket of French bread, still warm. Harry’s jaw dropped to the floor.

“So, your game?” Draco prompted, blowing on a spoonful of his stew.

“Draco, this is incredible! How long did it take you?”

“I like cooking,” he mumbled, defensive.

“That wasn’t my question,” Harry protested. 

“Well, you haven’t answered my question either, and I asked it first.” Draco took another sip of wine, one sardonic eyebrow daring Harry to argue back.

“Touché,” he said, before launching into the requested recounting of Wednesday’s game. Draco followed along admirably, periodically asking for clarification on specific plays, and he didn’t have any trouble remembering the names of Harry’s teammates nor the positions they played. They’d moved on to dessert by the time he finished, a tarte tatin that layered a smooth, buttery flavour over caramelised apples, warming him from the inside out. 

“If I’m not mistaken, I believe you owe me a couple answers now,” Harry said, but he was smiling, and his foot knocked against Draco’s under the table again.

Draco sighed in a put-upon way, even as he smirked back at Harry. “Yes, I suppose that was our arrangement.”

Harry leant a bit closer. He was conscious of Draco’s hand, only a few inches away from his own on the wooden table, and he could imagine heat sparking the space between their fingers. “So, you like cooking? How’d you learn?”

Draco brightened at this. “I learnt from my mother. She’s half French, and so my grandmere, who was always quite indignant about the state of food in this country, made sure to teach her how to cook properly, and Mother passed it down. It’s a family tradition, just like the ridiculous constellation names.” 

“But I like your name,” Harry blurted, then blushed magnificently. Moments like this reminded him why he had a job that didn’t require him to talk. Draco’s usual smirk widened into a blinding grin, and then he closed the gap between their hands, lacing their fingers together. Harry’s breath caught in his throat, and he could feel his pulse hammering all the way through him, which meant Draco could probably feel it too. They held each other’s gaze across the table, not saying a word; for the first time, Harry understood what it meant to get lost in someone’s eyes, because Draco’s were so grey and so deep that he thought he might fall into them. 

“Thanks for coming over,” Draco abruptly said, withdrawing his hand and snapping Harry out of the moment. He stood and began carting plates back over to the kitchen, and Harry had to stare down at the table, at his forlorn hand atop it, for a solid minute to register what had happened. When he did, he stood as suddenly as Draco had done and followed him into the kitchen, where he was putting the dishes and food away with the same adroit efficiency he had exhibited before the meal.

“Draco,” Harry said.

“Mm?” Draco glanced over at him as he corked the bottle of wine.

“Draco,” Harry said again, savouring the syllables on his tongue as he moved toward him. He pulled the wine bottle out of Draco’s slack hands and intertwined them with his own. “Draco,” he whispered, one last time.

“That is my name, yes,” Draco tried to quip, but his voice hitched on the words. Harry took a half-step forward, then paused. They were staring at one another and they were breathing the same air, and Harry waited for Draco to break the moment again, but he didn’t move. Neither of them did. The tension was growing thicker with every shared inhalation until Harry thought he might burst with it. Carefully, he untangled one of his hands from Draco’s and moved it to the other man’s jaw, sliding his thumb across his cheekbone. Draco’s eyes fluttered shut at the touch.

“Is this all right?” Harry whispered. 

Draco nodded. Harry shifted even closer, their lips a hairsbreadth from one another. If he tipped his chin up a fraction of an inch, they’d be kissing. Warmth pulsed between them, and it was simultaneously the most wonderful and most excruciating thing Harry had ever experienced. He traced his hand down the planes of Draco’s face again, trembling; their lips brushed one another, and then the dam broke. Harry clutched Draco’s hand tighter; Draco pulled Harry closer into him as they kissed, his fingers making their way into the mess of curls that lay at the back of Harry’s head and tangling there. Harry thought he would melt and evaporate and burst into flames all at once, because this was everything, and it had only been one door away this whole time.

It was remarkable how seamlessly dating Draco fit into Harry’s life. After work, he’d pop over to his boyfriend’s flat, or Draco would come over to his. On Friday nights, instead of feeling sorry for himself over takeaway curry, he and Draco sought out new restaurants, and on Sundays, they worked their way down the list of museums Draco had yet to visit in London. 

They were on their way back from the Tate Modern, their hands bumping each other as they walked, and Draco was explaining the political symbolism of a sculpture they’d admired, his voice growing more and more animated as he spoke. Harry was wondering just how bad it would be if he picked up Draco’s hand here in public when his iPhone started ringing, blaring out “A Cauldron of Hot, Strong Love” for all the world to hear. He had _known_ Ginny was up to something when she’d asked to borrow his mobile on Thursday. 

Draco raised an eyebrow and turned to him, slack-jawed.

“Is that Celestina—“

“It’s Hermione,” Harry said, an apology evident in his tone. “Sorry, I’m sure this will be quick.” He accepted the call. “Hey, ‘Mione?”

“Are you almost here?” Hermione blurted, blowing past his greeting. Harry could hear chattering in the background, and the tinkle of a laugh that was unmistakably Luna’s.

“Almost… where?” Harry tried.

“To our _house_? For the party we’ve been planning for a month? This was the only weekend that worked for everyone between when we finished unpacking and when the baby is due and—”

“Of course!” Harry cut her off before her voice could rise any higher. She already sounded as if she were seconds away from bursting into tears, and he’d never known how to respond when someone cried. He tugged Draco’s hand, pulling him to a stop, and they pressed themselves against the side of the railing over the Thames, avoiding a crowd of tourists ambling past. “We got a late start, but we’ll be there in about twenty minutes. Feel free to start without us. We’ll catch up.”

“We?” Harry could now hear a smile creeping into her voice, and he sagged with relief.

“Erm, yes. Is it all right if I bring a plus-one?” 

“I still can’t believe you forgot about your best friends’ housewarming party,” Draco said as Harry raised his fist to knock on Ron and Hermione’s door. The cabbie he’d hurriedly flagged in the touristy heart of London was already pulling away, thirty pounds richer. 

“If you tell them, I swear I’ll end you,” Harry said out of the corner of his mouth, then softened his words with a kiss on Draco’s cheek.

“We’re nearly forty minutes late and you didn’t wrap your present. I don’t need to tell them—it’s already rather obvious.” 

The door creaked open, and a barefooted, apron-wearing Ron stood on the other side. “Harry!” he exclaimed, reaching over for a hug. “It’s great to see you, mate!” He turned to Draco and frowned slightly, his forehead wrinkling. “And this is?”

“This is my boyfriend, Draco Malfoy,” Harry said. “And Draco, this is my best friend, Ron Weasley.”

“It’s nice to meet you,” Draco said in a measured tone, holding a hand out for Ron to shake. “So sorry we’re late—this one here got a little carried away when we were buying your presents.”

Harry offered up a sheepish smile and a Tate Modern bag brimming with prints and books and the like. Ron grinned back at the pair of them, his freckles dancing on his cheeks. “We’re just happy you could make it,” he said, opening the door wider. “Everyone’s out back, if you want to come on through.”

Obviously, Harry had helped Ron and Hermione move in and had visited a couple times since then, but this was Draco’s first time in their new house, and Harry watched him take everything in. Like in Harry’s flat, you could see evidence of all of their friends, but Ron and Hermione had made the cosy space their own. A wooden shelf by the fireplace was crammed with dozens of Hermione’s favourite books, one of Ron’s chess sets was laid out on the coffee table, and Rose’s muddy wellies were parked by the back door. It stood ajar, and Ron waved them through as he ducked back toward the kitchen. 

“Hey, everyone,” Harry said, glancing over the table set up in the backyard. At the far end sat Luna, Neville, and Ginny, who had evidently just said something hilarious, because everyone’s heads were thrown back in laughter, whilst she looked on, smug. Rose’s eyes peeked over the top of the table between Ginny and Hermione, and Harry couldn’t help the warmth bubbling inside him at the sight of his friends, all together, like in the old days. Sure, Fred and George weren’t here—their toy shop on Oxford Street kept them too busy to join, most of the time, and they’d always had other friends anyway—but the rest of his uni family was there, at the house, and so was his beautiful, brilliant boyfriend. 

As the laughter died down, the eyes of the group swivelled toward Harry and Draco, and Harry gave an awkward wave. Hermione leapt from her seat to hug him, her belly large and round between them, her coils of black hair tickling his cheek. 

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she said in her pleasant but businesslike manner. “I really thought you weren’t going to come. Forty minutes, Harry.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” he said. “But at least it looks like you’ve been able to survive all right without me.”

“I almost didn’t,” Ginny said, swinging an arm over his shoulder and ruffling his hair. Sometime during his brief conversation with Hermione, she had pushed back her chair from the table and marched over, so that she stood inches away from the pair of them. Draco was hanging back slightly, biting back the tender sort of smile that Harry knew he pretended he wasn’t capable of. 

“Shut up, Gin. I saw you Thursday.”

“And what a terrible wait it’s been, since then.” She sighed, then grinned up at him. Harry rolled his eyes, then stepped back a bit to allow Draco into the circle that had formed. When Draco joined them, Harry squeezed his hand, and his boyfriend’s posture relaxed a bit, filling Harry’s heart with something unfamiliar but warm. 

“Are you the plus-one?” Hermione asked, reaching out to hug Draco as well before he had time to nod in reply. “I’m Hermione. It’s so nice to meet you.” She gave him a wide smile, which Ginny replicated. 

“I’m Ginny,” she said.

“She’s the one you should direct all of your complaints about Celestina Warbeck to,” Harry stage-whispered to Draco. He and Ginny rolled their eyes in unison, then smirked at each other, and something in Harry’s stomach eased, seeing his boyfriend and one of his best friends already bonding over something, even if that something was teasing him.

Their introductions had gathered the table’s attention, and Rose, Luna and Neville all stood up to join their circle and meet Draco. Names and hugs and handshakes were exchanged, and when Luna approached him, she plucked a thin green paintbrush from her bun and tucked it behind his ear.

“It suits you,” she explained with a dreamy smile, before ducking back to her seat.

Harry wasn’t sure if he was surprised or not at how well Draco fit in with his friends, but he was pleased all the same. He conversed amiably with Hermione about what was going on at Downing Street and Westminster, he complimented Ron’s cooking, and he let Rose try her hand with one of his nicer pens and a miniature legal pad. When Ginny announced a game of amateur footie, he stood up to join in, despite his collared shirt and shiny oxfords. 

“How do we want to divide the teams?” she asked, absently dribbling the ball between her feet. This was more a formality than anything else; the teams always got divided the same way, with her and Harry on opposite sides, as they both played professionally. Hermione always sat out and refereed, and Luna and Neville usually counted as a unit, since she was prone to wandering away from the game in favour of observing a honeybee or beetle. 

“This can get a bit aggressive,” Harry murmured to Draco. “You don’t have to play. I’m sure Hermione wouldn’t mind the company.”

“Is that a challenge, Potter?” Draco raised one eyebrow, and Ginny wolf-whistled.

“Things are heating up over here!” she called out. “The teams, then: I’ll take Neville and Luna, and you take Draco and Ron?” Everyone nodded their assent and went to stand with their teams, and then the game began, ending only when Ron accidentally kicked the ball to the roof. Harry was grinning and mud-splattered; Draco’s cheeks had flushed faintly and a slight sheen of sweat had darkened the hair at the base of his neck, and Harry couldn’t resist the urge to give him a quick kiss, which Draco returned, even as his blush deepened.

The party dwindled as the sky faded from blue to gold to black, as boisterous laughter melted into giggles, then quiet conversation. Ginny left to chorused goodbyes, and Hermione retreated upstairs to put Rose to bed. That left Harry and Draco alone with Ron, Luna, and Neville, and he found his eyes frequently wandering to his boyfriend, to make sure he was all right. He needn’t have bothered—each time he checked, Draco was immersed in conversation with one of his friends, and Harry felt a sudden yearning desire to preserve this moment, to fold it away like a stolen snapshot in his wallet to look at over and over again. A laugh escaped Draco, and when Harry glanced over at him, his eyes were half-closed and his mouth was open with delight, his hair tousled from the football match and his skin warm in the candlelight. Harry’s heart swooped and he stared—he couldn’t stop staring—as it dawned on him that he was falling in love with Draco Malfoy. 

Shortly after, Luna and Neville announced that it was time for them to go, and Harry realised with a start how late it had got. Somewhere along the way, Draco and Ron had disappeared, leaving only one of Rose’s scribbles and a fountain pen behind—Luna’s thin green paintbrush was nowhere in sight, and more importantly, neither was Draco. 

Neville, Luna, and Harry blew out the candles and traipsed into the house, and sure enough, Luna’s paintbrush was lying on the coffee table, and Ron and Draco were lounging around a chessboard in the kitchen. Ron was clearly delighted to have found someone who was willing to play him, someone who hadn’t learnt any better, yet, and Draco appeared to be enjoying himself as well. Spices and various recipes littered the counter around them, and between turns, he perused them, occasionally offering a thought to Ron, who would inevitably laugh and provide his own feedback. Harry watched them from the doorway for a few minutes, not wanting to interrupt whatever bonding was taking place, but eventually Draco caught his eye and motioned him in. He leant on the other side of the counter and stared down at the chessboard; surprisingly, Draco was holding his own against the group’s undisputed chess master.

“Neville and Luna are headed out,” Harry reported. “We should probably get going soon, as well.”

Ron sighed and stared down at their unfinished game. “All right, I’ll walk them out. If you wouldn’t mind waiting a couple minutes, I’m sure Hermione would like to say goodbye to the both of you.”

Whilst Ron chatted with Luna and Neville at the front door, Draco slid one of his pieces across the chessboard. 

“Check.” He smirked up at Harry, who grinned back at him.

“You hadn’t told me you played chess,” Harry said, eyes tracing over all of the pieces on the board.

“I’m a man of many talents.” His smirk grew into that same unrestrained grin from their first date, the one Harry was starting to recognise as a sign that Draco was feeling exhilarated enough to no longer care what he looked like, and Harry was absolutely weak for it.

The front door clicked shut, and Hermione and Ron filed back into the kitchen to join them around the chessboard.

“I put you in check.” Draco tapped the offending bishop with one finger.

Ron beamed. “I like this one,” he told Harry, clapping Draco on the shoulder. “You should keep him around.”

“I’m planning on it.” 

“So, my uni family liked you. And I really like you,” Harry finally said, after several minutes of silence on the bus ride home. They were alone on the top layer of their double-decker bus, heading toward the city centre. Taking advantage of the solitude, their fingers were intertwined, hands resting on Harry’s thigh. 

“I liked them too,” Draco admitted. “You all seem really close. And I think the fact that I voluntarily joined you with no warning whatsoever speaks to my feelings concerning this. Us. You.” He glanced down at their hands, then back at the empty bus behind them.

Harry chuckled. “So, since you’ve met my family, when do I get to meet yours?”

Draco tensed, so subtly Harry might have missed it were they not holding hands, then shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I don’t know. Most of them are back in France.” 

“Oh. All right.” Several moments passed, and Harry stared out the front window, trying to distinguish the reflection of the lights in the bus from the innards of the city. 

Draco took a deep breath, his eyes trained on his lap, and Harry turned to face him, his heart in his throat. “My best friend is flying in from Paris next week, and if you’d like to meet her, I know she’d be happy to meet you,” he finally said.

Harry squeezed his hand. “I’d love that.”

Even though he’d never seen her before, Harry had no trouble recognising Pansy Parkinson when she stepped through customs and strode through the terminal. Her hair fell in a sharp black line to her jaw, her heeled black boots clicked across the floor, and her crimson lipstick perfectly matched her glossy nails. She looked every bit the editor of a Parisian fashion magazine. Draco had explained in the car on the way to the airport that they had met at journalism school in Paris and had bonded over being from England, then later, over being queer. He’d been sad to leave her behind when he got his offer with the _Times_ , but she had to come to Britain for business often enough, and when she did, they tried to meet up, at least once. Picking her up at the airport was a good way to sneak in an extra hour together, despite her busy schedule. 

Her eyes flashed with recognition as she saw them from across the swath of tile, and she waltzed over to the couple, leaning in to kiss Draco on both his cheeks.

“Bonsoir, mon chéri,” Pansy said, a wicked grin exposing deepset dimples. 

“Bonsoir,” Draco replied. “How was the flight?”

“Oh, you know. The usual. I still wish they hadn’t banned smoking on aeroplanes, but so it goes.”

“They did that because it’s dangerous, Pans,” Draco said. 

Pansy waved the point away, then turned her attention to Harry, who knew this official introduction was important but still found himself distracted by the smudge of lipstick Pansy had left on Draco’s jaw, absently wiping it off with his thumb.

“Is this the boyfriend?” she asked Draco whilst leaning in closer to Harry, a small frown perched beneath her pert nose. She dragged his glasses down his nose with one finger, her eyes peering deeply into his for a long, heartstopping moment. Under her gaze, Harry felt the distinct sensation that his limbs had got jumbled, that his nose and his hands were much too big for his body.

“Remarkable,” she finally said, stepping away. “Draco, you did not do his eyes justice in your letters.”

Draco coughed, a watercolour blush rising onto his cheeks, which Pansy ignored as she turned back to Harry.

“Anyway, it’s nice to meet you,” Pansy continued, kissing Harry’s cheeks in turn. His attention was still trained on Draco, who was studiously and uncharacteristically avoiding eye contact. “I’m Pansy.”

“Harry.”

They all stood there for another moment, Draco flushing spectacularly, Pansy smiling deviously, and Harry glancing back and forth between the two of them. 

“Shall we head on, then?” Draco asked, breaking the group’s silence. “Our dinner reservation is in fifty-five minutes, in Islington. We don’t want to be late.” 

Pansy and Harry nodded, then followed Draco down the terminal to Heathrow’s monolithic car park, Pansy’s suitcase wheeling behind them. They were chatting easily, an even flow of French and English interspersed with loud laughter reaching Harry’s ears. He didn’t precisely know what they were talking about—he hadn’t studied French since he was twelve—but he could hear their joy at being reunited in the cadence of their voices, and that was enough.

Once they’d settled into the car, Draco made a visible effort to steer the conversation not just to English, but to topics to which Harry could contribute. They stumbled through a few subjects, until they finally landed on something easy: traffic on the M4. It was horrendous that day, even by London’s standards, and they all readily complained about it, bemoaning the reservation that ticked closer and closer as time continued its unrelenting march forward.

“I don’t want to hear a word about how public transport is better than having your own car, Potter,” Draco said, sending a withering look over his shoulder as they came to a standstill. The motorway now resembled the car park they’d left behind, only much longer and with a good deal more honking.

“I think the facts speak for themselves,” Harry retorted. 

“Your boyfriend’s got a point, you know,” Pansy added, flashing a wink back toward Harry. 

“Oh, really?” Draco drawled, batting away Pansy’s two-fingered salute. “I’ll remember this next time you need to borrow my _private_ vehicle to visit Millie at half one, when _public_ transport is no longer running.”

“That was one time, you bastard!” But Pansy was laughing.

They finally reached Islington, and after several minutes of fruitlessly searching for a place to park, they hurried into the restaurant, which fortunately had saved their reservation. The matron guided them over to a polished booth, and Draco and Harry squeezed in next to each other, Draco’s hand spanning Harry’s thigh under the table. No one seemed to notice except for Pansy, who smirked knowingly at them from the other side of the booth. They idly chatted as they browsed their menus, but after the server took their orders, Draco announced he needed to use the loo and ducked out, leaving Harry and Pansy alone.

She extracted a cigarette from her purse, lighting up with practised insouciance. Harry squirmed under her gaze as she studied him again, eyes dark and penetrating. Pansy inhaled deeply, continuing to stare at Harry, who was beginning to wonder if he had something on his face.

“Draco said that you’re neighbours?” A smoke ring floated toward Harry, and he did his best not to cough. 

“Erm, yes, that’s how we met.” His fingers nervously tapped the tabletop.

“How charming.” She took another drag of her cigarette, eyes narrowing at Harry. “You seem all right, even if you are famous.” He opened his mouth to thank her, unsure how else to respond, but she ignored this and continued the speech she had clearly prepared. “However, you should know that nothing on this planet matters more to me than Draco’s happiness, and if I hear a single word about you hurting him, I _will_ come back to Britain to personally throttle you.” She smiled sweetly, as if she hadn’t just made a threat on Harry’s life. “Understood?”

He was slightly taken aback. “I… of course. I don’t want to hurt him. I—” Harry’s brain flitted back to that moment at Ron and Hermione’s the week previous, when he’d caught Draco laughing in the candlelight. He remembered the easy way they touched one another in private: their feet nudging each other under the table as they sat down to eat, and Draco’s hand on Harry’s elbow as they slid sock-footed across the kitchen as they did _not_ dance to Ginny’s Celestina Warbeck CD, since _neither_ of them liked her music. And he thought about how home had begun to feel like it was supposed to for the first time since the car accident that had stolen his parents. The declaration that he had been in love before, but it had never felt like this, like it was going to keep flowing into perpetuity, as comfortable as a daily stroll along the Thames, was on the tip of his tongue, before he remembered who sat before him. But Pansy seemed to understand what he wasn’t saying, and she arched one eyebrow as she nodded, satisfied, then stubbed her cigarette out on the edge of the glass ashtray in front of her.

Thankfully, Draco returned before they had to make any banal attempts at conversation, squeezing past Harry once again and placing his hand back on his knee, as if he’d never left.

“What’d I miss?” he asked, his presence evaporating the tension that had settled between Harry and Pansy.

“Pansy can blow a mean smoke ring,” Harry informed him, and Pansy smirked once again.

“Ah, yes. She practised that all the way through uni,” Draco said, ignoring the daggers being sent his way by Pansy’s indignant glare. 

Dinner carried on in much the same way as the car ride had done. Harry could tell that Pansy still didn’t quite trust him, and he had no clue what was going on when his tablemates slipped back into coarse, rapid-fire French, but that wasn’t the point. Draco had let him meet his best friend, despite his obvious apprehension at the prospect of it, and Harry could tell they cared for one another deeply. That mattered far more than whether he and Pansy were also destined to be best mates.

Nonetheless, Harry would have been lying if he said he wasn’t relieved when Pansy announced her departure: she apparently had plans to meet up with the famed Millie later that night. She kissed both of their cheeks once again, whispered something in Draco’s ear that left him laughing silly, pointedly told Harry to remember what she’d said, and then she was gone, except for the scent of camomile and cigarettes in the front seat of Draco’s car.

“Don’t lie to me,” Draco said as they began the drive back home. “What did you think? I know she can be a little… abrasive.”

Harry snorted. “You could say that.” He paused, considering his words. “But it was all right. I can tell that you two really love one another.” 

“Ach. Don’t get soppy on me, Potter.”

“But it’s true!”

Draco didn’t deny it. 

When Harry’s alarm went off the next morning, Draco groaned and pulled him in closer. Harry grappled for his mobile on the bedside table, to turn off its incessant blaring. This was made decidedly more difficult by the arms wrapped around his torso, pulling him back into a sea of blankets and his boyfriend’s warm embrace.

“What time is it?” Draco mumbled into his neck. “It’s still pitch dark.”

“Five thirty,” Harry replied, beginning the process of extricating himself from the bed. 

“You wake up too bloody early,” Draco whinged, rolling over so that his voice was muffled by his pillow. They’d only stayed the night together a few times, but this complaint inevitably fell from his lips when Harry got up for the day, no matter what time it was. 

“I have to work out before I go to practice. You know that.”

“But I’ll miss you,” Draco said, yawning. Harry shook his head and smiled at the rumpled form on his bed. He could barely see Draco’s outline in the dim light, but he knew that his hair was mussed and probably sticking up on one side, and that his bleary grey eyes wouldn’t fully open for another couple hours.

“Sorry. I’ll see you after work. It won’t be that long.” Harry bumped around his closet in the dark, searching for his trainers.

“Or you could take me with you,” Draco suggested, finally sitting up, hands rubbing his eyes as he tried to open them.

Harry laughed. “No offence, but I hardly think you could handle a run right now, and I need to get started.”

“No, I meant I could come with you to work.” 

“Don’t you have to go to work too?” Harry asked.

Draco shrugged. “My boss won’t mind if I come in late.” 

Harry raised his eyebrows. That wasn’t at all the impression he had got from Draco’s previous descriptions of his job, and he still looked as if he were inches from falling back asleep, his pale limbs long and loose and almost limp as he stared back at Harry. But Draco’s smile was soft and open and eager, and the thought of showing him around the training grounds sent a thrill through Harry’s stomach. 

“Really?” he finally asked. 

Draco shrugged again. “I can ask, but it should be fine. I put in more than enough overtime to justify a morning off. That is, if you want me to come.” He bit his lip and glanced away, the vulnerability in his expression thickening the air between them. 

“Of course I want that,” Harry murmured, sitting down next to Draco on the bed. He found his hand amidst the heaped blankets and squeezed it before bending down to tie his shoelaces. “Just not at the cost of your job. Anyway, I can make us breakfast if you’re ready by seven.”

“Should I trust you in the kitchen?” Draco said, his voice betraying his smirk, even though Harry couldn’t quite see it.

“Bugger off,” Harry said, standing up. “You know I cook eggs better than you do, even if you refuse to admit it.” He planted a soft kiss on his boyfriend’s mouth, then hurried out of the room, hiding his smile behind a fist.

When he returned to his flat, drenched with sweat and the damp morning air, he half-expected to encounter Draco asleep again in his bed, but instead he found the table set for two and the curtains opened in the front room, letting in the daybreak’s first hints of sunlight. His pillows had been fluffed, the sheets pulled tight across the mattress, and the corner of his duvet was folded back just so. No wonder Draco’s flat always looked like a catalogue, he thought, then set off to shower and prepare breakfast.

He heard a knock on the door just as he was sliding the finished eggs onto their accompanying slices of toast. 

“Come in!” Harry called out, and Draco poked his head into the flat before stepping in. He was freshly showered, skin pink and hair flat against his scalp. Somehow, a pen had already made its way behind his ear, even though it was barely seven in the morning.

“I hope you don’t mind if I brought some things to garnish our breakfast,” he said by way of introduction, holding up a plump tomato and a couple sprigs of basil. “This smells quite good,” he added.

“You’re so bloody posh,” Harry said, rolling his eyes as he slid the plates across the counter. “Only you could turn eggs on toast into a refined meal.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.” Draco’s voice was breezy as he arranged tomato slices and basil leaves around their plates. When he was satisfied with his handiwork, he pushed one back toward Harry, then held out a hand for a fork. Wordlessly, Harry passed it to him. “By the way, I got the go-ahead from my supervisor to come with you today. Remind me when we need to leave?”

“Seven twenty, if you can swing that,” Harry said. “Tea?”

“Please.” They chewed silently, and after they finished, Draco washed the dishes whilst Harry frantically flung his football gear back into his bag—he didn’t know how it always got scattered around his flat over the course of the weekend, but it inevitably did, necessitating this weekly ritual. 

When they reached the training grounds, Draco signed for his visitor’s badge, then followed Harry into the stands. Harry gestured to the front row of seats behind one of the goals. “You should be able to see everything all right from here,” he said, leaning in to give Draco a quick kiss.

Draco’s head turned away as he gazed over the stands. “Isn’t the view better from over there?” His brow was furrowed as he gestured halfway across the pitch to the seats parallel to the center line, right below the press box. “That’s where I usually sit and—” He cut himself off, eyes widening.

“You’ve been coming to my games?” Harry asked, unable to contain his grin. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Draco shrugged, staring down at his shoes. An awkward silence settled between them.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you. You can sit wherever you want. I just picked here because it’s easiest to see from the field. Do you want to meet by the entrance to grab lunch at one?”

“That should work.”

“Perfect! A kiss for good luck?”

“You hardly need that,” Draco muttered, rolling his eyes, but he complied anyway, resting a hand on Harry’s chest as their lips met. “Go kill it out there, Potter.”

“I’ll do my best,” Harry vowed, raising a hand to his heart. 

“You’re so dramatic.”

“But you like me anyway.”

“I do, don’t I?” Draco’s tone was thoughtful, even as his eyes danced. He pulled Harry in for another kiss. “I’ll see you later.”

Practice that day was especially brutal, and Harry forgot about his boyfriend entirely as they ran drills to Coach Scrimgeour’s shouts and his teammates' grunts. During Harry’s water break, his eyes idly flicked to the place in the stands where he’d left Draco, but he must have moved to his preferred spot farther down the pitch, since he was nowhere to be found.

Harry was thoroughly exhausted by the time his lunch break rolled around, his stomach on the verge of eating itself from hunger. He dropped by his locker to grab his wallet and mobile but stopped short, seeing a text flashing on the screen from Draco.

 _Sorry to leave early_ , it said. _There was an emergency at work._

Harry’s heart sank, but he knew it wasn’t Draco’s fault; he was probably equally disappointed. _No worries, I completely understand_. _Best of luck!_ he typed back, then added, _If you have time tonight, would you like to meet for dinner?_

Draco still hadn’t responded by the time practice ended. Harry frowned down at his mobile the whole Tube ride home, hoping that Draco’s work emergency wasn’t too serious, whatever it was.

It was only seven thirty the next morning, but it was already shaping up to be a shite day. Harry had forgotten to set his alarm and didn’t wake up until seven fifteen, almost two hours late. When he’d seen ambient light entering through the cracks between his blinds as he awoke, the jolt in his gut had immediately told him something was wrong. Fifteen minutes later, he was sprinting toward Liverpool Street Station, his football bag banging against his thigh with every step. Grey clouds skulked low in the sky, threatening an imminent storm. He blew past the daily newspaper sellers and a middle-aged man holding out a marker and t-shirt for an autograph, then tumbled down the steps of the escalator, barely entering the train car before the doors hissed shut behind him. As soon as it began moving, he dropped his duffel between his feet and collapsed against a pole, taking what felt like his first breath of the morning. 

He didn’t remember that he’d planned to grab Draco some coffee and a danish before work until he transferred Tube lines twenty minutes later. Draco still hadn’t texted him back, and while Harry didn’t know exactly what had happened the day before, he’d figured a small pick-me-up couldn’t hurt. But it was far too late, now. As it stood, he would already arrive at practice ten minutes after it began, minimum, and he knew Draco would have already gone to work by the time he made it back to their flats. That was, if he’d even left the office in the first place. 

The locker room was abuzz when Harry barrelled in, which would have been a surprise even if their training hadn’t already started. His teammates stood in a circle, all in various states of undress. The expressions Harry could see were frantic, wide eyes and open mouths on everyone.

“Why is everybody still here? What’s going on?” he asked, cutting between two pairs of broad shoulders.

“What do you mean, what’s going on?” the goalie asked, shoving a copy of the _Times_ into Harry’s hands. “Didn’t you see the paper this morning?”

He scanned the front page, unable to comprehend what he saw there. He knew his teammates had to be concerned about the photo of Coach Scrimgeour in handcuffs, or perhaps the headline announcing all of his drug charges. But Harry’s eyes skipped straight past that, to the impossibility printed beneath the headline: _written by Draco Malfoy_.


	3. Chapter 3

Without a coach and with the tension building between members of the team, practice didn’t get too far. Harry hadn’t been able to focus at all, missing the ball entirely in several basic drills, and his teammates didn’t seem to be faring much better. The assistant coach finally dismissed everyone less than an hour after they had begun, and they all tramped back to the locker rooms, silent. 

Harry’s relief at the early release vanished as he trudged to the train station, the clouds overhead scuttling even lower than they had a couple hours earlier, pressing down on the tops of the buildings. The air felt hot and oppressive, and it curdled in Harry’s lungs with every inhalation. His thoughts had raced too quickly during his training for him to track them, let alone the ball at play, but now they crystallised into painful clarity: Draco had used him.

That sentence echoed in his mind over and over as he rode the train back to the city centre. _Draco had used him_. He didn’t know why it hurt so much, why his oesophagus was constricting in his chest and his vision was blurring. Everyone else he’d met in the last few years had only cared about him because he played football, so why had he expected Draco to be any different? He’d told Harry from the start that he was a journalist, and he knew way too much about football for someone who wasn’t deep into the sports world. It all seemed so obvious, now.

Harry shuffled off the train when it reached his stop, but walked straight past the building that contained his—and Draco’s—flats and flagged down the bus to Dulwich Village instead. The wind had picked up, blowing the stench of the city’s refuse up from the river, and the morning’s promised rain finally began, a lazy drizzle just heavy enough to dampen Harry’s shirt and ruin his hair, or at least make it worse than usual. He clambered aboard, then sagged into the first available seat, trying not to consider what would happen next. The jostling of the bus made it easier not to think about anything, and Harry stared unblinkingly out the window, the buildings he passed obscured by the drumming rain that bounced from the asphalt and splattered the smudged glass. As he approached Ron and Hermione’s street, the rain flung itself from the sky with more vigour than ever, and Harry cursed himself for forgetting his umbrella once again—it had been mouldering uselessly in his locker since the night he had gone on that horrid date with Zacharias and then met Draco, almost two months ago. The newspaper he still carried crumpled in his fist, and he stalked off the bus into the waiting downpour, his heart heavy and aching.

Harry nearly turned around when he saw the cheery yellow flowers blossoming in Ron and Hermione’s front garden. He didn’t want to bother his friends with his problems when they had plenty of their own concerns to deal with—Hermione’s baby was due in less than a month, and Harry suddenly couldn’t even remember if Ron was working from home today or not. This had been a stupid idea, although it wasn’t quite as stupid as falling in love with his neighbour had been. He felt like he might sick up; a wave of dizziness made him stumble against the front stoop as the realisation of what had happened hit him once again, full-force.

Harry raised his fist and knocked. Where else did he have to go?

The door opened, a chubby-cheeked toddler half-hidden in its shadow. Rose looked Harry up and down, then turned to the empty hall behind her and shouted, “Dad! Uncle Harry is here!” 

“Coming!” Ron called. “Harry, how’s it—“ he stopped short as he came into view, eyeing Harry’s sodden frame and the utter dejection he was doing a shite job of hiding. “What happened?”

Harry’s mouth opened and shut of its own accord. Not knowing where to start, he wordlessly handed Ron the soggy newspaper.

Ron’s gaze jerked back up almost immediately, his eyebrows approaching his hairline. “Bloody hell, Harry! Your coach got arrested?”

“It gets worse,” Harry said, running one finger across the byline with Draco’s traitorous name.

“But… what… your boyfriend?” Ron’s eyes were now as round as two blue moons, taking up half his face. 

Harry nodded. 

“Bloody hell,” Ron said again. “I really liked him.”

“I did too,” Harry mumbled, embarrassed to find tears leaking out of his eyes. Ron didn’t comment on it, reaching over and wrapping him in a hug instead. Harry shuddered at the warmth of it, and despite his best efforts, a couple of tears traced their way down his cheeks and onto Ron’s jumper. He was _so bloody stupid_.

“Sorry, I’m getting you all wet.” Harry sniffled, rubbing a hand across his face. 

“That’s all right.” Ron gave him a small smile. “A little bit of water never hurt anyone.” Harry choked out a laugh, and Rose toddled over to join them, wrapping her arms around Harry’s knee. They all stood there for a moment, silent, and Harry couldn’t help but wonder how he had found such an extraordinary best friend.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a languorous haze. Shortly after one, Hermione dropped by, carting in a stack of paperwork and a loaf of Irish brown bread. She and Ron exchanged a meaningful look over Harry's head when she entered the house, immediately informing him that he was the purpose of her midday visit. Sure enough, she sat close to him on the sofa, squeezing his shoulder and offering up a sad smile. 

“How are you doing?” she asked in her most soothing voice, which was a relatively recent acquisition. Harry supposed he could thank Rose for that.

“I don’t know,” he said, closing his eyes for a brief moment of respite. “I’m still trying to process that Draco used me like this. I haven’t even started to make sense of Coach Scrimgeour dealing steroids. What the hell is up with that? And how is the team going to pull through this season without a bloody coach? God, this is all my fault. I single-handedly ruined England’s—”

“Harry.” Hermione’s tone was firm, and his mouth snapped shut. “This isn’t your fault. Your coach made the choice to engage in illegal activity, and Draco made the choice to expose that. Maybe your relationships with them provided that opportunity, but you can’t blame yourself for it. You couldn’t have known.”

“I should have done,” Harry muttered. “I’m too trusting. Did I tell you I knew he was a journalist? Because he told me. He told me the night we met, and I still went and—”

“Mate.” It was Ron who cut in this time. “I’d be confused too. Hell, I _am_ confused. You two seemed to have something really special when you brought him over here. And he put up with all of us. That isn’t nothing.”

“What are you trying to say?” Harry’s words sounded as if they had travelled through several layers of phlegm before they surfaced, and he coughed, self-conscious. 

Ron sighed and shook his head to himself. “Sorry. I’m not quite sure.” He stood and faced the other three, all huddled on the couch. Rose was fiddling with the tassels of a throw pillow, seemingly oblivious to the conversation going on above her head. “We still have some pumpkin pepper soup from when Mum visited this past week, if you’d like me to heat it up.” He shuffled to the kitchen before Harry had a chance to say “yes, thank you,” even though he couldn’t muster up any hunger; it felt like a rock had taken up residence where his stomach was supposed to be. But pumpkin pepper soup was his favourite, and he understood that Ron was helping the best he knew how. 

A few minutes later, creamy orange soup had been ladled into four ceramic bowls, its tangy scent wafting through the air, and slabs of Hermione’s brown bread were stacked on top of one another in the middle of the kitchen table. Ron fetched Harry a fresh cup of tea, too. 

Harry knew he had the best friends in the world, and he loved them more than anything. But part of him still longed for something else, for _someone_ else, someone who both challenged and complemented him, someone who always had a scathing retort lined up but knew when to offer comfort instead, someone who was unbelievably posh but also routinely forgot he’d tucked a pen behind his ear. Their relationship had been founded on a lie, but somehow, it had still fulfilled a need Harry had only recently admitted to having. 

Draco’s light was on when Harry returned home that evening, a golden beacon flashing from the third storey balcony. Harry gazed up at it and shuddered in the evening air, still heavy and hot from the day’s thick blanket of storm clouds. They’d opened up a crack for the first time that day, exposing a shard of inky sky and a sliver of dewy moonshine. Harry stared at it for a long moment, then gathered his nerves and marched up the three flights of stairs.

His knock against Draco’s door echoed into the night, mixing with the sounds of raucous laughter, slamming car doors, and boots on wet pavement. London never grew tired, Harry thought, and he wondered what that would feel like. His limbs were sodden with rainwater, exhaustion, confusion, but out on the street, the night was just beginning.

Nobody answered. He knocked again, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Still no one came. Harry sighed.

“Draco, I know you’re home. I can see the light is on.” A beat passed.

The light went off. 

“If you’re going to break up with me, at least have the decency to do it in person.” Harry’s voice grew progressively louder with every syllable he spoke. He was shaking, and he couldn’t tell if it was from sadness or anger or the sudden gale of wind that had whipped past him. “It’s pretty shitty to find out your boyfriend used you from a newspaper.”

There was still nothing. 

When Harry got into his flat that night, he made sure to slam the door behind him.

It took just over a week for the team manager to find a new coach. Coach Shacklebolt’s contract with Liverpool had just ended, and he moved to London with only a few days’ notice. Harry didn’t check the paper to see if Draco had reported on it. He didn’t want to know.

In the meantime, the team had begun to spend more time together outside of their usual training bloc, perhaps because their abbreviated practices left them with more free time, or perhaps because their world had been upended the previous week and they all understood what the others were going through better than anyone else could.

They’d all crowded into a sandwich shop a few days after Scrimgeour’s Scandal, as the press had dubbed it, startling the bored-looking waitstaff, who hurriedly offered up menus and declared that dessert was on the house. As conversation turned toward the inevitable, Harry aired his confession. It had been weighing on him more and more as he’d started to properly know his teammates for the first time, and he couldn’t bear to hide it from them any longer.

“My ex is the one who leaked the news,” Harry blurted, then gulped down half a glass of water, so he could avoid seeing everyone’s reactions. When he set it down, the whole team was still staring at him.

“What?” The question came from Cormac McLaggen, the wide-shouldered goalie who had handed him _the_ copy of the _Times_ the day the news had broken. 

“Yeah,” Harry mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

“What the hell is that even supposed to mean?” McLaggen narrowed his eyes. “Is this your fault? You get into a fight with your girlfriend and she ruins our entire team?”

“Woah, woah, woah.” These words burst from Cedric Diggory, a ridiculously attractive starting forward to Harry’s right. “That’s quite an accusation, McLaggen. Give Potter a chance to explain.”

Harry shrugged. “It might be my fault. I don’t really know. My ex is just the one who wrote the article, and he—it was published the day after I, err, invited—but I swear I had no idea about Coach Scrimgeour or any of it.” He was met with a tableful of frowns and sympathetic looks. “I really am sorry.” 

Strangely enough, that conversation cleared the air between Harry and most of his teammates, even though McLaggen still scowled whenever they made eye contact. But a few of the others smiled at Harry when he lapped them in their morning drills, and Cedric even invited him out to dinner with him and his boyfriend—he had noticed Harry’s pronoun slip and wanted to make sure he knew he wasn’t alone. 

So Coach Shacklebolt found himself with a team that could have been in much worse shape, all things considered, and Harry had made a new friend. 

Of course, despite this progress, England had fallen behind its practice regimen in the intervening week, and that meant their new coach held them over more often than not. Harry welcomed the distraction, and he liked Coach Shacklebolt; he was stern but kind, and he was still young enough to demonstrate new manoeuvres and strategies he wanted them to implement, his muscles rippling under dark brown skin.

Harry found other ways to distract himself, too. He checked a couple more museums off the list he’d made with Draco, which weren’t nearly so interesting without a certain someone’s snide commentary, but he made do. He gave Neville uninformed suggestions on new plants to stock and he listened to Luna lay out plans to set up Ginny with Cho Chang, a rugby player who had recently signed up for Luna’s introductory gouache class.

“They’re made for each other,” Luna sighed as she swirled red paint onto a blue canvas, creating a sunset Harry could only describe as bloody. “Just like apples and cinnamon, you know?” 

Harry remembered the notes Draco had left on his door waxing rhapsodic about danishes, of all things, and the way he had stood silhouetted against the sun, the furtive glances and hand squeezes. His heart clawed its way up his throat.

“Yeah. I do,” he said. 

He came home late that night, arms straining to carry a football bag, an abstract painting of a fruit bowl, and a potted pansy. He hadn’t had the heart to tell Neville whom the flower reminded him of. 

The large canvas partially blocked his field of vision, which Harry thought was an adequate excuse for him almost missing the paper bag and coffee cup on his doorstep, “Bean Thinking of You” printed on its label. Inside the bag sat a jumble of pastries and a small note. Harry instantly recognised the creamy paper and perfect handwriting. Hands trembling, he pulled it out and held it up to the lantern casting shadows across the landing. 

_Dearest Harry,_

_I hope this note finds you well. I wanted to give you my sincerest apologies for what I did. My intention was never to hurt you, although I know I have done so. I cannot imagine the fallout you have undergone from my actions, which I deeply regret. If given the chance, I would appreciate the opportunity to explain myself, although I understand if you never want to hear from me again. Just let me know, and you have my word that I will respect that decision._

_Warmest regards,_

_Draco_

_PS I’m sorry, I never learnt which of the pastries is your favourite._

Harry sat back, the wind knocked from his lungs; his football bag fell to the ground with a thump. A tide of emotion was rising through him and he hurriedly gulped it down, reminding himself to inhale, exhale. He pressed his face into his hands, trying to make the thoughts stop coming, or at least trying to make them wait their turn and enter his mind single-file. As it stood, images and ideas ripped through him, one after another after another, whirling past his outstretched fingers when he tried to focus on just one. 

Harry didn’t know if he wanted to hear Draco’s justification. He hardly knew how to breathe. This wasn’t fair. Draco wasn’t allowed to upend his world twice in two weeks. However, if there was an explanation… 

He growled in frustration, ripped off the bottom of the note and scrawled, _I like cardamom buns_. Before he could second-guess himself, he tucked the message into the soil of the potted pansy, placed it on Draco’s doormat, and retreated into his flat, mind still spinning.

The next morning, Harry came home from his run to find another flat white and cardamom bun on his doorstep, both still warm. There wasn’t a note attached, but he knew where they had come from. His stomach did something funny as he imagined a sleepy Draco stumbling his way to Bean Thinking of You “too bloody early,” also known as six in the morning, just for him. Harry’s eyes darted around him as he picked up the parcel, as if he’d find Draco lurking in a cobwebbed corner of the shadowed stairwell. But there wasn’t a sign of him anywhere. 

He was met with the same surprise the following four mornings, until he couldn’t take it anymore. A few pastries hardly made up for what Draco had done, and Harry still wasn’t sure if he forgave him or not, but he wanted to hear what Draco had to say. 

He pulled out a sheet of paper and the fountain pen Draco had given him, then shook his head. This was stupid. As Draco had once said, they both had perfectly good mobile phones.

 _Can we talk? Please meet me at my flat at 8pm._

Draco never answered the text, but there was a knock on Harry’s door at eight sharp. He’d only just come home himself a few minutes prior; Coach Shacklebolt seemed intent on working the team to death. 

Harry prised the door open, and there Draco stood as if Harry had dreamt him up, hands clasped in front of him and his mouth set in a thin line. He still wore his work clothes, but his hair was a mess, like he’d been fisting his hands through it, and there was that bloody pen behind his ear, as always. Harry’s stomach dropped, and he opened the door a bit wider, then stepped back to let Draco in. 

He meant to thank Draco for coming, to say something civil that would ease the tension inspissating the atmosphere, but instead he watched silently as Draco perched on the edge of the shabby sofa. 

Two breaths passed as they sized one another up, carefully avoiding eye contact, and suddenly, all of Harry’s rage bubbled to the surface. “You’re a _sports_ journalist? And you never thought to tell me?”

Draco froze, visibly panicked, his eyes stretched wider than they should ever have been able to go. “It’s not that simple.”

“Please. Explain, then.” Harry leant back in his seat, raising his eyebrows. 

Draco inhaled, eyes shut, and he rested his head in his hands. Harry could feel the anxiety rolling off him in waves. “One and a half years ago, I was promoted from covering Manchester United to the English national team. I didn’t want to be a sports journalist—I’ve always preferred politics—but Father thought sports would be a better match, because the public still cares about it, and it wouldn’t interfere with his political career. So four months ago, I was thrilled when a whistleblower informed me of possible corruption on the national football team.” He swallowed. “Sorry, could I have some water?”

“Of course,” Harry said, jumping to his feet. 

Draco continued his speech as Harry made his way to the kitchen. “Anyway, when you popped up on my porch and told me who you were, of course I invited you in. Of course I tried to be friendly—if you had any information, I wanted it.”

Harry turned away from the sink to look at Draco, whose hands were worrying their way through his platinum hair. “I see.”

“But then I started developing feelings for you. Alarmingly quickly, I might add. I’d never felt so conflicted. I don’t know that I ever would have asked you out if it weren’t for the case, but I… I really liked you the whole time. I think I fell in love with you, actually.” He bit his lip. Harry nearly forgot about the water glasses and the lemon sitting atop the counter as he sneaked his way back into the living room. They couldn’t have this conversation with him relegated to the kitchen.

“It felt like a dream the whole way through, not because you were Harry Potter, but because you were _Harry_. Because you care so fiercely about those you love, and you aren’t afraid to be vulnerable, and you’re unbelievably cheeky, and—”

“Draco.” Harry’s voice was quiet, and Draco finally looked at him, eyes grey and glistening, before he trained his gaze back on the floor. 

“So I knew I had a conflict of interests, as it were, which I was studiously ignoring. I thought maybe the tipoff was a dead end after all, and things could continue as they had been. But when I accompanied you to practice, I found the missing link that I needed to report to the police and publish the evidence. The problem was, I didn’t want to anymore, because I didn’t want to hurt you. I swear I didn’t. I had no idea what to do.

“So I finished the article. I didn’t feel right sending it in, but I couldn’t ignore what I had found. That would destroy my journalistic integrity. I finally decided to email my boss and explain that I couldn’t continue the investigation because I’d got too close to the case. My plan was to request she send it on to a coworker, and I’d provide him with all the notes I’d collected in ways unconnected to you.”

Draco sighed, closing his eyes again. Harry pushed a water glass across the coffee table, but Draco didn’t move to take it. “Then my father called,” he continued, voice cracking. “I know this isn’t very admirable, but I’ve never wanted anything more than to please him. I’ve essentially let him run my whole life. He picked my couch, he picked my career, and he’s tried to pick my wife. I put my foot down on that one but never explained why. So he still doesn’t know that I… prefer men. My parents would be terribly disappointed, and I knew you wanted to meet them, but I’ve never brought anyone home, and I—I panicked. When he hung up, I sent in the article. For what it’s worth, I regretted it almost immediately, but I couldn’t take it back.”

“Draco,” Harry said again. “I would never—”

“Please, I’m almost done. I’ve been doing a lot of reflecting since then, and I understand if you don’t forgive me or want me back, but the last few months have been one of the happiest times of my life. Maybe _the_ happiest. I want to give this a fair shot, if you do too. But regardless of what you decide, I think I’m ready to come out to my parents. It’s time I live for myself, instead of for my father. And if he can’t accept it, I’ve learnt a lot about found family from you, and I have some good friends. I think I’ll be all right. Also, for what it’s worth, after I turned in that article, my supervisor agreed that I was more suited to political work than sports, so I’ve transferred departments. I can promise you nothing like this will ever happen again.” He sat back, his expression apprehensive.

“Draco,” Harry finally said. “Wow. That’s a lot.”

“I know.” They both sat in silence for a while. 

“I have one more question,” Harry said.

Draco held his hands up. “Shoot me.”

“Why did you ask what had happened to my parents on our first walk? If you covered football, surely you already knew.”

Draco sighed again. “You’re right, I did know. It just seemed personal enough that I wanted to learn about it directly from you. It didn’t seem fair for me to know without your consent. I realise that it’s a painful topic, so maybe that wasn’t the right call, but that was my thought process at the time.”

He waited, expectant. Harry was still trying to process the entirety of the confession, the ins and outs of all of it. He had no clue where to start, but he knew he needed to. Draco looked like he might spontaneously combust if another moment passed in silence

“It’s been… better than I expected,” Harry admitted, stepping around the coffee table to sit next to Draco, who was still visibly tense. He relaxed slightly as Harry settled in beside him. “Having the new coach. And the team has got a lot closer because of the time we had without one. You’re right that Coach Scrimgeour’s dealings needed to be made public, too. I’m still upset at you, mind, for not telling me any of this. I would _never_ have pressured you to come out to your parents, and it would have been… courteous of you to tell me you covered my bloody team—”

“If you ever read the paper—”

“Draco.”

“No. Sorry. You’re right,” he said, chagrined.

“But I… I think I fell in love with you too, and if you’re honest with me from now on, and I’ll be honest with you, I’d like to give this another shot.”

“Really?” Draco’s grin lit up the entire room, and Harry had never loved it more.

“Yes. Really.”

Their faces were only a few inches from each other, and they stared at one another for a heartstopping moment. Harry had to remind himself that despite everything that had happened, this was real, and he could feel the weight of that in his hands as he gently cupped Draco’s jaw. Harry watched as his eyes fluttered closed, then leant in. Their kiss was tentative at first, a question neither of them felt confident enough to answer, but it probed deeper, grew more and more tender as they held each other close. Harry’s heart stirred in his chest, and their eyes blinked open. Draco smiled at him again, pulled him even closer, and the answer to that question was suddenly, achingly clear. 

_Make sure you bring an umbrella_ , Draco’s text instructed. _It’s brutal out there._

Harry smiled down at his mobile as he pulled a suit out of his locker. Today, he was finally meeting Draco’s parents. Draco was still nervous about it, even though he pretended not to be; Harry had told him repeatedly that they didn’t have to do this, but Draco insisted that it was time. 

After he had made himself as presentable as possible, he heeded Draco’s advice, finally pulling that abandoned umbrella out of the corner of his locker. He shook it out, checking for stagnant water, then heard an unmistakable clink. Puzzled, he stared down at the umbrella in his hands, but a glint from the tiled floor just beyond caught his eye. He peered closer, then laughed aloud.

The key he’d thought he lost on his date with Zacharias Smith had been in his locker the whole bloody time.

Draco was waiting for him outside the stadium, leaning against the side of his car with the projected sophistication of someone in a sports car advert. The sight of him still sent Harry’s heart stuttering. Despite the grey sky and the rain cascading around him, it was bright outside, the sun’s glow visible behind the layered clouds.

“You’ll never guess what I found,” Harry called out by way of greeting, waving the key in the air. He tossed it over, and Draco caught it nimbly, one-handed.

“What’s this?” Draco said, frowning down at it. “A key? Please tell me you didn’t lose yours again. The kiosk down the street doesn’t stock your keychain anymore. What a disgrace it would be if yours had to say ‘Diggory’ instead.”

Harry snorted. “No, no ‘Diggory’ keychains for me. This is from the day we met. Turns out Smith didn’t take it, after all.”

“Hmm, I suppose that makes him less deplorable than I’d presumed. Perhaps I owe him an apology,” Draco said, pocketing the key. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes. Are you?” 

Draco nodded, the set of his jaw determined, even as his eyes flickered with worry.

“It’s going to be all right,” Harry repeated as they drove to Wiltshire. “You’re going to be all right.” 

Draco’s hands clenched the steering wheel as he eased his car up Malfoy Manor’s winding driveway, past the ironclad gates and the yew hedge and the unending lawns. A flash of white slipped past the corner of Harry’s gaze, and he whipped his head back, staring.

“Was that… an albino peacock?” he asked, unable to fight the incredulity in his words.

“Oh. Did I forget to mention those?”

They ambled up the front walk, tension still evident in the set of Draco’s shoulders. Harry couldn’t keep from gaping at the splendour of the gardens and the mansion looming over them. They passed a fountain burbling with iridescent water, rows of daffodils whose petals were suffused with gold, and another stray peacock with its plumage fanned out for the world to see. Malfoy Manor itself dripped with extravagance, all marble pillars and silver filigree and the odd gargoyle peeking out from the gutter.

By the time they made it to the front porch, Draco had gone quite pale, a sickly colour not too far off from the storm clouds in the distance. “Porch” was a bit of a loose term; Harry may have more accurately described it as an open-air ballroom. Draco darted forward to knock on the door, then stepped back next to Harry, letting out a slow, shaky breath.

As they heard the sound of the door unlatching, Harry squeezed Draco’s hand one last time, then made to let go, but Draco clutched him tighter.

The door swung open, revealing the only two people in the world who were both blonde and sharp enough to create someone like Draco Malfoy. They both had unsmiling mouths, but there was a familiar glint in Narcissa’s eyes.

“Hi Mother, Hi Father,” Draco said, voice taut. “I’d like you to meet Harry Potter. He’s my—he’s my boyfriend.”

Draco’s mother stepped out of the house, then reached over and clasped Harry in a soft hug. Lucius held out a stiff hand for him to shake.

“Harry, it’s so nice to meet you,” Narcissa said, the twinkle in her eyes growing brighter. When Harry glanced back at Draco, his complexion had grown a bit brighter too, and a tentative smile had formed on his lips. “Would you two like to come in?”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading!! This was my first fic, so I really hope you enjoyed it :) if you did, any kudos or comments are appreciated <33 and I'm always happy to say hi on tumblr [@baegoalsandcreamcheese](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/baegoalsandcreamcheese) :))


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